One for the Team
by Verdreht
Summary: Neal Caffrey always manages to avoid any real injuries, no matter the situation. Some think he's just lucky. So what happens when his luck runs out? Will Peter and Elizabeth figure out what's wrong with the theif before it's too late?
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note:

Okay, so this is just your faithful authoress tuning in to address some of the reviews.

The biggest one is the age. Okay, yes, I am well aware that Neal has to be in at least like his thirties. But he acts like such a kid sometimes…well…most of the time, that I thought it would be more fitting for the feel of the story to make him a little younger. Just makes the body match the mind.

Second, this is set, obviously, in an alternate universe in which *spoiler alert!* Kate does not get blown up in an airplane *spoiler over* but instead betrays Neal.

And finally, I will definitely be updating this soon. I am working on about twenty other fics though, and I write as the feeling takes me. I'll get right on it though. Be patient, and thanks for reading! ^^

* * *

Neal sighed, pushing his chair back and forth on the back two legs. He was going out of his _mind_! Peter was reading him parts of a case they were working on, but Neal wasn't focused on it. To be honest, right then, he didn't care one bit about what Peter said. He was pissed at him. Since other FBI agents had taken an interest in his talents, Peter had let him be passed around the agency like an unwanted toy.

He wasn't feeling well either. His body hurt and his head was pounding, not to mention his stomach. After that last job with the mobsters, and that charming little warehouse brawl he'd been stuck in before Peter and the rest of the FBI got there, he was sure he looked like a walking bruise. He's gotten bashed in the back of the head by a two-by-four, hit in the ribs, gotten the hell punched out of his stomach and sides, and his shoulder and left leg were just bad... He wouldn't be telling Peter that though. For one, he didn't think he could stomach hearing the FBI agent telling him to "cowboy up" one more time, but for two, he was pretty sure the older agent would have made him go to the hospital. And he hated hospitals. Hated them.

"Neal!" Peter's shout snapped Neal back to attention. "What do you think?"

Neal quickly wracked his brain to think of something that Peter had said. Just before he was going to confess to his disregard for Peter's entire speech, though, a loud grumble was heard. And it wasn't from Neal's side of the desk. "I think we should go get dinner." He couldn't keep the small smirk off his face as he congratulated himself for a quick save. Elizabeth was out with friends that night, so he knew Peter wouldn't have any plans.

Peter nodded, as Neal had known he would, and the con man stood up. Well, it was more of a process. He waited until Peter had turned to grab his jacket before he even tried. He'd been sitting to long, and all his aches had stiffened, and he ended up having to use the desk to push himself up. He'd just righted himself when Peter turned back around.

"So where to?" he asked, quickly trying to conceal any awkwardness in his movements by distracting his partner as he grabbed his own jacket and fedora. Peter started discussing the options with Neal, but the conversation was really a one on one.

Even as they got to the car, Neal stayed pretty much quiet, only offering quiet suggestions as he watched the rain pour down the window.

Peter noticed, and finally turned around to him. "You're being awfully quiet today," he noted. "What's up with you?"

Neal frowned. "Would you watch the road?" Peter didn't make any such move, so he gestured towards the windshield.

"Fine," Peter submitted, turning to stare at the road ahead of them. "You still haven't answered my question though."

"Sorry." Neal hoped that maybe that would be enough to stop the conversation from going the direction it was going in.

No such luck. "That's not going to work," Peter told him. "What's wrong?"

Neal didn't want to lie. It wasn't that he had a problem with lying, it was that he had a problem with lying to people he respected. And as much as he hated to admit it, he respected Peter. Besides, he was off his game. Peter would probably catch the lie before he finished telling it.

Sadly, he didn't have a whole lot of options. "I have a headache," he told him. It wasn't a lie. He did have a headache. He just had a lot of other things.

"You take something?" Peter asked, glancing over at him.

"No. I was kind of hoping it would go away," Neal answered honestly.

Peter nodded. "Alright, I have some Advil in my glove box. You can take some when you get your drink at the restaurant." Neal felt like the kid that had to get his parents' permission to take medicine. He wasn't going to argue with the dude with the pills though, and nodded.

Instead of conjuring up a real response, he leaned his head against the window of the car and closed his eyes. To his relief, Peter didn't try to start the conversation again.

When they got to the restaurant, a little Chinese restaurant, they found a space, and went in. They grabbed the table in the corner like they always did, away from the intrusive light of the windows. Neal sat down in the corner most of the two, and pulled the bottle of Advil out of his pocket. He poured about four or five into his hand, and was about to toss them into his mouth, but a hand grabbed his wrist. He followed the hand to an arm, to a shoulder, to a face, and saw Peter frowning at him.

"The bottle says take two," he told him, plucking some of the pills out of Neal's palm and leaving only a sad pair. He grabbed the bottle too, putting the pills back and tucking it in his pocket. "I think I'll hang on to these."

Neal was torn between being angry and being embarrassed, but he took the remaining two pills anyway, and took a sip of his water to wash them down.

That was about when the waitress came, and they placed their orders. He ordered some hot tea, and fried rice. Peter, watching Neal, curious as to why he hadn't ordered his usual, placed his own order, and handed the waitress both of their menus. Once she was gone, he turned his focus back to the twenty two year old. Neal was working on adding a fifth lemon to his water.

"Want some water with your lemons?" He asked, raising an eyebrow as Neal reached for a sixth. The con man pretended not to hear him, squeezing a sixth wedge into his drink before mixing it and taking a sip. It seemed satisfactory, and he sat the glass back down, wiping the lemon juice on his napkin.

Giving one more go at a conversation, Peter asked, "So how's June?"

Neal looked up at him. "Fine I guess. She and April are out of town. Will be for a while."

"So you have that whole big house to yourself?"

"Sure do." Neal couldn't resist. "Coffee and all." Peter rolled his eyes.

They were quiet after that, until the food came, with every one of Peter's attempts at conversation getting either completely ignored, or diverted once again to silence. Peter couldn't stand it anymore.

"Neal, what the hell is your problem?" he hissed. It caught Neal by surprise. Neal who had been silently fuming the whole dinner. Neal who was one step away from throwing up every last bit of the food he'd just eaten. Neal who wanted to be anywhere but where he was.

"What's my problem?" he retorted bitterly.

"That's what I asked," Peter bit back, his tone mocking and condescending.

That was all it took for Neal to blow his lid. "You really want to know my problem?! My problem is you and the rest of your fucking bureau kicking me around like some expendable tool!" His voice wasn't quite a shout, but he'd gotten some attention. "I almost got shot Peter. _Shot_! In the _head_! Because they don't have my back like you do – like I thought you did. But I guess you're just like them, aren't you? I'm just some ex-fucking-convict that's only good for helping you and your FBI buddies solve your goddamned problems!"

With that, he pulled his wallet out, grabbed a twenty, dropped it on the table, and left the restaurant. Just up and left, jacket over his shoulder.

Peter sat in stunned silence for a second, before he realized that he should go after him. He quickly tossed down a twenty on top of Neal's, and he, too, hurried out. By the time he got out on the streets, Neal was gone.

He knew where he was going, and he knew that with the rain how it was, it was going to be one hell of a long walk to June's. Beyond that, he knew that something was up with the kid. That in mind, he got in his car and started for June's, keeping an eye out for Caffrey. He knew he didn't get far, and sure enough, he spotted him, walking with his shoulders hunched along the sidewalk. He rolled down his window.

"Neal, get in the car," he commanded. Neal ignored him. "Neal! Get in the car!"

Neal glared at him. "Or what? You'll arrest me? Send me back to jail? Get a better threat you prick, because I'm sick of that one."

This was not Neal. Neal didn't act like that.

"No, Neal, I'm not going to arrest you or send you back to jail. I'm going to give you a ride," Peter told him. "It's too cold to be out here in this rain."

Neal looked taken aback by this, and after a second, walked around the front of the car and slid into the passenger seat. He wrapped his arms around himself immediately, and Peter could see him shivering even from where he was.

Peter subtly turned up the heat. "What's going on, Neal?" Peter asked finally, when Neal made no indication of speaking. Neal didn't answer. "Neal?" Again no answer. Peter turned around, and saw Neal with his eyes closed, leaning his forehead against the window. "Neal!"

"Stop the car," Neal mumbled.

"I'm not going to—"

"Stop the car!" He shouted, his hand going for the door knob. Peter quickly pulled over to the right lane, and stopped, just in time for Neal to wrench the door open and crumple to the ground outside. He heard the retching before he got around the car.

Neal was on his knees by the time Peter got to him, and the older man knelt beside him, one hand on his back and one on his shoulders to keep him from lurching forward. The rain matted his hair to his face, and his clothes were soaked through, making him look all the more ill and almost child-like.

Neal retched for a good minute or so before he was finally reduced to dry heaves, and eventually got himself under control. As soon as he could at least halfway stand, Peter hoisted him up and into the car, closing the door behind him and going around to the other side.

"You're sick," he said. "You're sick and you didn't tell me." Neal groaned in response, twisting uncomfortably in the seat. Peter decided then that he would wait to read the riot act to Neal for when the other was actually coherent enough to appreciate it.

He turned the car around. "Where you going?" Neal mumbled groggily.

"To my house. You aren't staying by yourself. You're a mess, and Elizabeth would kill me if I let you go home alone." Neal muttered something incomprehensible and went quiet, and he stayed that way for the rest of the ride.


	2. Chapter 2

"Neal, wake up." Peter shook the young man's arm lightly, and was surprised when he gave a shout and sat up, his eyes unnaturally wide. Had he been dreaming? A nightmare perhaps? He wouldn't doubt it. Ever since Neal had found out about Kate a few weeks ago, he'd been much more quiet than usual. Before, with the box, he had just seemed like he was planning something. Now that he knew that she was just using him, he seemed downtrodden.

He snapped himself back to reality, and to the task at hand, which was to get the sick consultant out of the car and into the house.

"Peter?" he mumbled, sitting up in his seat. It didn't go unnoticed how his arm subtly curled around his stomach. He still wasn't feeling well.

"It's time to get up, kiddo," Peter said, reaching into the car and wrapping an arm around Neal's shoulder and helping to hoist him out. As soon as Neal hit his feet, his knees buckled, but luckily, Peter managed to catch him. "And here we go," he said, pulling Neal's arm around his shoulder. Neal was…way lighter than he should be, Peter thought.

It took some doing, but Peter managed to get the door open while keeping Neal upright, and steered him into the house, sitting him down on the couch. Neal sunk down immediately, his head hitting the arm of the sofa and his eyes slipping shut. "Hey, hey, no sleeping yet," Peter said, shaking him. Neal's bright blue eyes peeled open slowly, and he blinked at him. "You hang out here for a few seconds. I'm gonna go get you some dry clothes to change into." _And hopefully by then, El will be back,_ he added to himself.

Just to be sure, while he was perusing the drawer of clothes Elizabeth had bought specifically for Neal, he called her. She was just leaving the diner, and he asked if she could come home early, that Neal was there and wasn't feeling so hot. She, of course, agreed, and he hung up, returning to the living room with the clothes.

Only Neal wasn't in the living room. He would have wondered where he was, but all of the sudden, he heard violent retching coming from the bathroom.

"Neal?" he asked as he pushed the door open. Sure enough, the blue-eyed twenty-two year old was doubled over the toilet, throwing up. Peter sat the clothes on the vanity and knelt down beside him. It was weird; normally he had no idea what to do in situations like this, but with Neal it was like some instinct took over, and he could just _tell._

Like the way he could _tell_ Neal was about to face plant into the toilet. "Whoa," he gasped, grabbing hold of Neal's shoulders just in time to catch him as his arms gave out from under him. Neal hadn't eaten that much though, so he didn't vomit long, but his dry heaves continued until Peter finally placed a wet rag over his mouth, holding it closed. Neal's eyes went wide and he thrashed.

"Shh, take it easy kiddo. Breathe through your nose," he told him. Neal thrashed again, but finally, he stopped and listened to Peter, and soon enough the convulsions stopped. "You okay now?" Peter asked, removing his hand.

"I think s—" he didn't get to finish his sentence, and he fell into another round of retching, his eyes squeezing shut as tears ran from them. Peter just rubbed his back, reaching with one hand to the sink to get some water for him. He wondered briefly how the consultant had gotten so sick in so little time. He was shaking so hard that if Peter didn't know any better, he would've thought the kid was going into shock or something. As it was, it just looked like a stomach bug. But it was one helluva stomach bug.

Neal had only just started to get his stomach back under control when Peter heard the door open.

"Is anybody home?" came the call from the foyer. Neal, despite his pitiful state, seemed to perk up a bit at the sound. Well, perked up being he immediately tried to stand, probably to go greet her. It ended with him doubled over the porcelain throne again, doing his best impersonation of the girl from The Exorcist.

The sound of shoes being kicked off into a wall, and padding feet made its way all the way to the bathroom, where Elizabeth appeared in record. She had no sooner looked at him than her lately-not-so-dormant mommy mode kicked in, and she was at Neal's other side, barking orders to an utterly flabbergasted Peter.

With Peter off running errands, it was just Neal and Elizabeth in the bathroom. The aforementioned thief seemed to be struggling to get himself under control, but it obviously wasn't working, and he ended up just choking out apologies as he lost what seemed like every meal he'd eaten in the last week.

"Shh hun, just take deep breaths, okay?" she hushed, rubbing his back in soothing circles. Neal nodded, but still, he spent the better part of five minutes being on and off sick. It seemed though, that finally he had nothing else left to throw up, and he fell back against the wall of the bathroom. His sweat-damped hair stuck to his forehead and neck, and his face was more pale than Elizabeth had ever seen it.

Elizabeth reached over and flushed the toilet, and grabbed the paper cup of water Peter had gotten ready from the vanity of the sink. Neal took it from her with a shaky hand, and made to chug it, but Elizabeth intervened. "Small sips, Neal," she told him, and he nodded. He wasn't exactly pining for a repeat performance after all, and he figured she knew what she was talking about if for no other reason than she was Elizabeth. She knew everything.

When he finished rinsing his mouth out and getting what he could of the nasty taste out of his mouth, he leaned his head back against the comparatively cool wall behind him. "Sorry," he muttered, closing his eyes.

Elizabeth frowned, and reached up to brush his bangs from his face. "It's not your fault you're sick," she told him. "And," she added, pressing the back of her hand more firmly against his forehead, "apparently have a fever."

_I wish that was the worst of my troubles,_ Neal thought bitterly, doing his best not to jerk his head away from her cool hand. Not that he could've put it anywhere, and the world was spinning enough without adding rapid movement to the mix. Once again, he wasn't in for a repeat performance, and to him, sitting there with his eyes closed and not moving _at all_ seemed like the best way to reach that particular end. Or to not reach it. Whichever made more sense. To be honest, Neal wasn't sure he could've figured that out right about then. He wasn't even sure he was capable of coherent sentences. Luckily for him, Elizabeth didn't ask him any questions. She was more about bossing him around right about then. "Open your mouth," she commanded, and he did so. He felt the cool metal slide under his tongue, and recoiled briefly before he realized that it was a thermometer.

"Elifabef, I'm fine," Neal protested mildly. He kind of just wanted to go curl up in a ball somewhere and pretend he didn't exist for a little bit. If you didn't exist you couldn't hurt, after all, and right about then, that hit pretty high on his wish list.

A beep sounded, and Elizabeth plucked the thermometer from his mouth. "Fine? Neal, you have a fever of a hundred and one," she said, her eyebrows knotted in concern. "Okay, I'm going to go see if I can held Peter find you something for your fever and your stomach. You get changed," she said, but then stopped. "Do you think you'll be okay to do that?" she asked.

Neal couldn't believe he looked bad enough for her to think he couldn't even dress himself. Sure, he felt about like that, but usually, he was a lot better at hiding it.

"Yeah, I'll make it," he assured her with a smile that he knew probably wasn't as winning as they usually were. It would have to do, and it did. Elizabeth left him in peace to change by himself, and he set about peeling himself off the floor and changing out of the clothes that had grown uncomfortably damp.

He made it up to the mirror, bracing himself against the vanity as he splashed some water on his face. When he looked up in the mirror, he cringed. He did look pretty awful. His eyes looked like someone had punched him out, they were so dark, and he looked distinctly greenish. "Definitely not attractive," he muttered to himself as he started to undress. He took greater care once he got down to his undershirt. He had a feeling that some of the wounds he had reopened, and that meant they had probably bled a little, which meant they had probably gotten stuck to his shirt.

He was right, so he go the pleasure of systematically ripping his skin away from his once pristinely white undershirt. He realized about then that he would need some place to hide it, lest Peter or Elizabeth find it. That would really freak them out, and Neal really didn't feel like dealing with all that right about then.

Luckily for him, it seemed Peter had gotten a new razor that week. One of the nice fancy electronic ones that had all those nice chargers, and more importantly, really big boxes.

He quickly opened it and tucked his shirt down inside the box, closing the lid of it and replacing the plastic adhesive circle that held the tab in place. There was little to no chance they would find it, and he didn't think there were any other options. There was always the back of the toilet, but Peter was a cop. He probably checked the back of the toilet daily on paranoia alone.

With the evidence satisfactorily hidden, he looked himself over. Some of the bandages had come off with the shirt, but a lot of them, mostly the big gauze pads he'd taped quite liberally over his various cuts and abrasions. The rest was just bruises, most of which were already starting to return to normal flesh tone.

Despite what Peter might think to the contrary, this was not the first time he'd had wounds like this. Usually though, he'd had the option of retreating to his penthouse suite and licking his wounds for a few weeks before showing his face to the world again. Not the case here, but he figured he'd make due with what he had.

He pulled on the shirt over his head, careful of all his aches, and moving slowly so as not to incite the wrath of his churning stomach or his pounding head, both of which seemed to be conspiring against him. The pants came next, which took a bit longer, since he was having trouble working up the coordination to manage to stay standing on one leg. He managed though, somehow, and was rewarded with a much more comfortable get up.

Just in time too, because there was a knock at the door the very moment he finished with the drawstring on the flannel sleep pants.

"Are you finished Neal?" It was Elizabeth.

"Yeah," he called out, wincing at how raspy his voice was. It sounded like he'd been gargling razor blades or something.

The door opened, and Elizabeth came in. She opened her hand to him, and in her palm were a couple of pills. He frowned. He'd never really like medicine. It was too easy to switch up and drug. He trusted Elizabeth though, so he took the pills from her hand and popped them in his mouth. She had a cup of water waiting for him when he finished swallowing them, and handed it to him. He took that too, and tried not to think of how many different things could have been in those capsules that were _not_ conducive to his health.

"Thanks," he muttered.

"No problem. Now come on, you need to get some sleep," she told him, and put an arm around his shoulders. She steered him out of the bathroom and to the living room where a much more impressive version of a bed had been made since last time he'd slept there which seemed like about an hour ago. Time was kind of screwy in his head right about then though, so he could honestly say he couldn't care less. He slid under the covers, feeling a little awkward for how he was being watched the whole time. He figured she was just trying to make sure he didn't die on her or something though, so he tolerated it.

"Alright, well there's a trash can right here, and I'll be upstairs doing laundry if you need me, okay?" she asked.

It occurred to him though, that Peter was nowhere to be seed. "Peter?" he asked, fatigue already tying his tongue and fogging his brain.

"I sent him out to the store for some Sprite, crackers, and anti-nausea meds. We're fresh out of all three," she said, smiling. "He'll be back in a bit though. Just go to sleep, okay?"

But Neal was already asleep.


End file.
